"Lucy, calm down," Lex sighed, placing both hands on her shoulders in what was meant to be reassuring and instead felt like pre-flight instructions. "I'll only be gone for an hour. No one is going to dissect you in that time. We already talked about that a couple of times."
Lucinda gave him a flat stare. "Oh, someone absolutely will," she said, lowering her voice. "Don't tell me you didn't feel that. That female scientist is clearly into you, and she hates me for breathing near you. I am one hundred percent certain she will turn this into a live demonstration while you're gone."
She began fastening the remaining buttons of her blouse with suspicious urgency, as if cotton fabric were a legally binding force field. Refuse to wear any lab gowns the moment Lex told her he'd leave for a moment.
"The examination is non-invasive," Lex said evenly. "Like I always tell you. Blood samples. Neurological scans. Cellular analysis."
"She threatened me, Lex," Lucinda highlighted. "Who's telling she's not gonna drug me?"
Lex's jaw shifted slightly—he was thinking. Dr. Miller was truly brilliant. Efficient. Ruthlessly focused. And, unfortunately, one of the very few specialists capable of analyzing Lucinda's anomalous physiology at the speed Lex required.
Finding someone equally qualified, equally discreet, and less… personally motivated had proven difficult.
He almost looked—almost—regretful. The word would have offended him. His father would have called it weakness. But there it was anyway.
He knew Dr. Miller's unhealthy fascinations toward him—and he has been using it as a leverage against his competitors—Lionel Luthor for example.
"I require her expertise," Lex said at last.
"Oh, that's comforting," Lucinda muttered. "Nothing says safety like 'she's the best we've got.'"
"She will not harm you. I promise," he said firmly. "You will be monitored the entire time. I will be reviewing the data remotely."
"So if she tries anything dramatic, you'll what? Burst through the door in slow motion?"
Lex tilted his head slightly. "I'd prefer to do it with a hair flip," he said dryly, "but I'm currently at a biological disadvantage."
Lucinda stifled a laugh as he ran a finger across the very dignified absence where his hair used to be.
"Wow," she giggled. "You can joke now, ah?"
"I'm attempting to lighten the atmosphere," he replied with a faint smirk. "It's inefficient to have your primary variable panicking."
She raised a brow. "Primary variable. That's romantic."
His expression shifted. "I told you," he said more quietly, "I won't let anyone hurt my friends. And you are one of them."
That landed harder than the joke. Lucinda's smile faltered just slightly—not from discomfort, but from the unfamiliar steadiness in his tone.
"Trust," Lex continued, his voice calm but deliberate, "is a word missing in the Luthors' vocabulary. I intend to carve it in." He allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I want you to trust me, Lucy."
Lucinda blinked, caught somewhere between incredulity and a warm, confusing flutter she definitely wasn't supposed to feel. She opened her mouth, ready to say something witty, charming, or at least coherent—but all that came out was a soft, "Right…" as Lex's words settled like a surprisingly heavy coat over her shoulders.
Lex gave her a final, almost imperceptible tap on the shoulder before turning and leaving the observation room. The door hissed closed behind him, separating her from the meteor-infected man like some bizarre, radioactive VIP section.
Lucinda exhaled and reached for the lab gown neatly folded on the table, her fingers brushing over the crisp fabric like she was about to suit up for a mission in a sci-fi sitcom. Slipping it on, she tugged at the sleeves and smoothed it down, trying to ignore the lingering butterflies—and possibly Lex's lingering weight in the room.
Just then, the door slid open, and Dr. Miller entered, tablet in hand, flipping her hair like she was auditioning for a villain-themed shampoo commercial. She towered over Lucinda, a predator in pristine lab whites, scanning her like she'd just wandered into a jungle gym instead of a lab.
"So you know," Lucinda said, cocking a brow, one finger pointed at the CCTV cameras mounted at every angle like their own little audience, "Lex will be watching everything. One wrong move, and I will—without a doubt—sue you."
Dr. Miller blinked once, smirked, and tilted her head. "Sure. Because it's not like they'd notice if I injected an empty needle into you."
Lucinda almost laughed out loud, the idea too cartoonish to take seriously.
"Oh, please. If you actually try to inject a lethal air bubble into my bloodstream," she said, wagging a finger, "you'd be kissing the floor faster than a failed yoga attempt."
Dr. Miller's smirk wobbled—just the tiniest fraction—and Lucinda could almost hear the mental gears grinding, recalculating. She pressed her advantage.
"Now," Lucinda squinted her eyes and leaned forward just slightly, channeling her inner tiny-but-ferocious boss, "do your job properly. Otherwise, I can't guarantee you'll leave this laboratory with every tooth intact."
Meanwhile, outside the lab, Lex slid into his sleek black car, the kind that looked like it could outrun a hurricane and still make it to a board meeting on time. A man in his forties, immaculately suited and carrying an expression somewhere between bored and terrified, sat across from him. A black suitcase rested on his lap, unnervingly still.
The car eased forward, tires humming softly against the asphalt. Lex placed the lead box carefully on his lap and faced the man. "What do you have for me, Dawson?" he asked lightly, though every inch of him radiated a carefully controlled intensity.
Dawson gave the faintest of smiles, as if he were revealing the secrets of the universe—or at least, the secrets of a really complicated puzzle. "A very important one, Mr. Luthor," he said, flipping open the suitcase.
Inside, neat stacks of photographs lay like a meticulously arranged shrine: signs, symbols, and etchings that mirrored precisely the carvings on the key inside the lead box.
Lex leaned forward, lifting one photograph after another, eyes narrowing. Slowly, deliberately, he opened the box and compared the symbols. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by that calm, analytical awe he wore like armor. "Have you already decoded what this means?" he asked, tone sharp but almost intrigued.
Dawson exhaled, a slow, weary sigh. Lex's gaze shifted to him, sharp as a scalpel. "What am I paying you for, Dawson?" he said immediately. "I told you to come to me after you found a way to interpret these. Not just to look at them like a gallery exhibit."
Dawson wet his lips nervously. "We've contacted every linguist in the country, Mr. Luthor… but none could interpret these symbols."
Lex placed the photos down with a weight, a faint glint of impatience in his eyes. "Are we only limited to the United States, Dawson? I want linguists, cryptographers, historians, shamans, whatever it takes. Globally. I don't care how obscure—they exist somewhere. Just bring me the answer."
Dawson nodded, opening his mouth to speak again. "I… was under the impression, sir, that you had already found the owner of the item. Couldn't this subject interpret them?"
Lex's jaw tightened, the patience in his tone thinning like ice on a hot day. "If she could, Dawson, I would be asking for her help, not yours. That's why you're here—so stop wasting time with obvious questions and start bringing results."
Dawson immediately nodded, flipping open his notebook with a mix of eagerness and mild trepidation.
Lex tapped the stack of photos resting on the lead box. "Where were these taken?"
"In the eastern part of the Philippines, sir," Dawson replied. "From a recently discovered cave. It was an accidental find—some teenagers stumbled upon it while hiking. They call it Jiabong Cave."
Lex's gaze lingered on the photos, noting every jagged formation, every strange marking etched in stone that mirrored the key's symbols. "The Philippines, ah…" he muttered under his breath. He tapped the lead box for emphasis, as though the faint echoes of the carvings demanded obedience.
Then, turning sharply to Dawson, he said, "I want that cave. All of it. Do whatever it takes—purchase, lease, acquire—whatever. Money is irrelevant. I want Jiabong Cave under my control within the week."
Dawson blinked. "Sir… within a week? That cave is remote, protected by local ordinances, and—"
Lex cut him off with a flat, commanding glance. "Dawson. By the time you finish explaining why it can't be done, I will have already bought a country. Consider this your problem to solve. Go."
Dawson swallowed, already running through logistics in his head, as the black car purred smoothly onward, carrying Lex ever closer to plans that no cave, no ordinance, and certainly no teenager would be able to impede.
As the car hummed along, Dawson's mind raced. He imagined walking into a boardroom back in Manila, trying to explain: "Uh… so, we need to buy a cave… fast. Yes, a cave. No, it's not for tourism. And yes, Mr. Luthor insists it be done within a week. Also, don't ask why."
He shivered slightly. Somewhere deep down, he knew this was going to be a very, very long week.
Meanwhile, Lex leaned back, folding his hands over the lead box with a faint smirk. Some plans were simple; execution was merely everyone else's responsibility—provided he supplied the money and the pressure.
He dropped Dawson at one of LuthorCorp's manufacturing plants, where men in hard hats moved like obedient chess pieces beneath steel skeletons and smoking stacks. Dawson stepped out clutching the suitcase as if it contained state secrets—which, in a way, it did.
The car door shut.
"Next facility," Lex instructed.
The vehicle rolled forward again, gliding past warehouses and half-lit streets until something—or rather someone—caught his eye.
"Stop."
The driver braked smoothly.
Up ahead, under the flickering buzz of a dying streetlamp, stood Lana Lang.
Lex's gaze sharpened.
She was holding a photograph—creased from being folded and unfolded too many times. Even from a distance, he recognized the posture: focused, worried.
Searching.
He knew exactly who.
Before stepping out, Lex carefully slid the lead box beneath a concealed compartment under the car mat. The panel clicked shut seamlessly. Hidden. Secure.
Then he exited.
"Lana."
She turned at the sound of his voice, surprise flashing across her features before she smoothed it away.
"Lex."
He glanced around the alley.
It was narrow and poorly lit, hemmed in by brick walls stained with age and something less identifiable. Trash bins leaned crookedly against one wall. A neon sign from a distant bar sputtered weak blue light that barely reached the damp pavement. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose sheet of metal clanged intermittently in the wind. The place smelled faintly of oil and something that had given up on being fresh days ago.
"What are you doing here alone in an alley like this?" Lex asked evenly. "Where's Clark?"
At the mention of Clark Kent, Lana's lips thinned. She glanced around, uneasy.
"I've been looking for him," she admitted. "Someone called him. It sounded urgent. He ran this way."
Lex's brow lifted slightly. "Here?" He gestured subtly to the grimy corridor around them. "What would Clark possibly be doing in a place like this?"
"If I knew," Lana replied dryly, "I wouldn't have followed him, Lex."
There it was—that edge. That quiet distrust she never quite managed to hide around him.
She didn't like Luthors.
And Lex was very much a Luthor.
His lips curved into a polite, measured smile. "How about you get inside the car and we wait? If Clark went in there, he'll come back out."
Lana didn't move.
Her eyes flicked to the car. Then back to him.
Suspicious.
Lex exhaled softly, almost awkwardly. "Lana. I'm aware you're cautious around me."
That was generous phrasing.
"But I promise you," he continued, voice steadier now, "I'm not going to do anything that would harm you—or my friendship with Clark."
The word friendship lingered.
Lana blinked.
She understood what he meant.
She knew Clark cared about her—more than he ever admitted out loud. She'd felt it in the way he hovered, the way he looked at her like she was something fragile and unbreakable at the same time.
But she was in denial about that. Conveniently.
Because she had a boyfriend.
And because acknowledging it would complicate everything.
"I can take care of myself," she said after a moment, though her tone had softened slightly.
"I don't doubt that," Lex replied. "I just doubt the alley."
As if on cue, something metallic crashed deeper within the shadows.
Lana flinched.
Lex didn't.
He only tilted his head slightly toward the darkness, eyes narrowing.
"Well," he murmured calmly, "that can't possibly be good."
"I don't doubt that," Lex replied. "I just doubt the alley."
As if summoned by narrative timing itself, something metallic crashed deeper within the shadows—loud, hollow, and wrong.
Lana flinched.
Lex didn't. He only tilted his head slightly toward the darkness, eyes narrowing with clinical interest.
"Well," he murmured calmly, "that can't possibly be good."
The air shifted.
The afternoon sunlight still filtered down from above, but the alley seemed to swallow it. Shadows thickened unnaturally, as if something unseen were dimming the world by degrees. The temperature dropped just enough to prickle skin. Even the faint city noise beyond the alley seemed to hush.
"Lana," Lex said quietly, extending a hand toward her without looking away from the darkness. "Get in the car. Now."
She hesitated—stubborn instinct battling good judgment—until a figure staggered forward from the far end of the alley.
At first glance, he looked like a drunk man who had lost a fight with gravity. His shirt hung loose and half-buttoned, stained and damp. His boots scraped unevenly against the pavement.
But as he stepped under the flickering streetlamp, the details sharpened.
His skin was too pale—ashen, almost translucent—and beneath it, greenish veins pulsed faintly like sickly light beneath frosted glass. They branched up his neck and crawled along his temples, disappearing beneath greasy strands of hair plastered to his forehead.
His eyes were bloodshot—but not red. Green. A dull, radioactive tint that caught the light unnervingly. The whites of his eyes were threaded with dark capillaries that seemed to throb in rhythm with the veins along his jaw.
His lips were cracked, curled into something between a grin and a grimace. And when he exhaled, it sounded wet—like air forcing its way through damaged lungs.
He swayed once. Then steadied.
Lex's expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
Meteor-infected. Just like the man Lucinda had encountered—only this one looked worse. Much worse.
In theory, in Smallville's usual pattern of bizarre disasters, meteor-infected individuals were indistinguishable from ordinary citizens until their abilities manifested. Subtle. Controlled. Almost human.
This was not that. This looked like something dragged out of a nightmare and left under a flickering streetlamp.
The man's neck jerked sideways with a sickening crack, vertebrae shifting audibly. His jaw unhinged slightly—not fully, but enough to be wrong. The green beneath his skin pulsed brighter, spreading in branching fractures along his cheekbones.
Then he lunged.
No warning.
No stagger.
Just sudden, unnatural speed.
"Run!" Lex barked.
He grabbed Lana's arm, pulling her toward the car. She ran—but panic tangled her steps. Her heel caught against uneven pavement and she went down hard, palms scraping against concrete. The sound of skin tearing against gravel was sharp and immediate.
"Lana!"
She gasped, shock overtaking breath as her elbows struck next.
The infected man let out a guttural, distorted sound—half growl, half choking cough—as he closed the distance.
Lex didn't hesitate.
He hauled Lana upright with more force than gentleness, practically lifting her off her feet as he propelled her toward the car. The driver had already thrown open the back door.
They dove inside.
"Drive!" Lex commanded.
The car lurched forward just as the infected man slammed into the rear quarter panel with enough force to dent metal. His hand dragged across the window, leaving a faint green smear before he stumbled backward into the alley's gloom.
The vehicle accelerated out of range.
Inside, the world felt suddenly too small.
Lex immediately pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Secure all 21 facilities," he ordered the moment the line connected. His voice was controlled—too controlled. "Total lockdown. No one in or out without my authorization. I want perimeter sweeps and internal scans. Now."
He ended the call without waiting for confirmation.
Then he turned to Lana. She was trembling. Her breathing uneven. Her scraped palms were already reddening, small beads of blood surfacing where gravel had embedded into skin. Her elbows looked worse—raw, torn, beginning to swell.
She stared at her hands like they belonged to someone else.
"Lana," Lex said quietly.
Her eyes lifted to him, wide and shaken.
"He—he wasn't human," she whispered.
Lex held her gaze. "Perhaps," he replied evenly. "He wasn't." He shifted forward toward the driver. "Hospital. Now."
The driver nodded, increasing speed.
Lex looked back at Lana, his expression no longer strategic or analytical—just concerned. He gently took one of her wrists to examine the scrape more closely.
"You're going to be fine," he assured her, voice low and steady. "They're superficial injuries."
But his mind was already moving three steps ahead. Mapping variables. Replaying data. Eliminating the obvious.
The meteor shower had happened years ago. The immediate mutations, the isolated incidents, the occasional superpowered outlier—those had patterns. Lex had seen it himself in the laboratories constructed by his father. They were chaotic, yes, but contained. Understandable within a certain twisted scientific framework.
This? This was decay. Collective. Aggressive. And visibly degenerative.
So why now? Why not then?
Lex stared ahead as the car sped through traffic, the city blurring into streaks of muted color beyond the tinted windows.
He had been exposed to the meteors himself. Directly. Extensively. More than most people in Smallville had ever known.
And yet he was intact. No glowing veins. No cracked vertebrae. No mindless lunging at pedestrians in alleys.
His fingers tightened slightly over the edge of the seat.
If meteorite exposure alone caused this transformation, statistically he should have manifested something by now. At the very least, a mild tendency to glow in the dark and yet all he got is a shiny head.
"Could it be…" he thought, his expression turning distant, analytical. "It's not the meteorite that caused it?"
Maybe meteorite exposure was merely a catalyst. A trigger. What if something had activated dormant mutations?
A secondary agent.
A compound.
A signal.
His mind shifted to Lucinda.
What if the meteors were never the origin?
What if they were merely vessels—delivery systems scattering something ancient, something misplaced, across the past? Not random debris from space, but fragments of intention.
Fragments of design.
And Lucinda—a being from the future—sent back to retrieve it… only to forget her mission entirely because she got distracted by modern plumbing, sarcasm, and possibly coffee.
Yes. That could absolutely happen.
The thought settled into him like cold steel. Precise. Dangerous. Mildly irritating.
If something had been displaced—something powerful enough to warp biology, to rot men from the inside out years after impact—then the meteor shower might have been less random catastrophe and more… scheduled delivery. A cosmic courier service with catastrophic side effects.
A trigger. Waiting patiently for activation.
And Lucinda's arrival would not be coincidence.
It would be timing.
Strategic timing.
Terribly inconvenient timing.
A faint chill threaded through his composure—followed immediately by the deeply unpleasant realization that this theory required accepting that time travel, alien pathogens, and selective amnesia were all operating simultaneously in his life.
It was only a theory. Highly speculative. Logically fragile.
Impossible.
But Lucinda herself had once belonged in that category and yet she existed. Which meant "impossible" was becoming less of a scientific barrier and more of a personal inconvenience.
Every anomaly he had cataloged, every unexplained phenomenon he had once dismissed as statistical noise, was slowly aligning into something disturbingly coherent. Not comforting. Not stable. But coherent.